THE WANTS OF MAN. BY JOHN QUINCY ADAMS. N 1841, a Washington correspondent of the Albany Evening Journal, writing of the distinguished individuals then in Washington, says: "John Quincy Adams is one of the intellectual prodigies whose characters distinguish eras of time. An hundred years hence I doubt whether the American annals will show more than two names Benjamin Franklin and George Washington — brighter than that of John Quincy Adams. 46 Mr. Adams is now seventy-four years old. But years have made no impression upon his intellect. That is still fresh and vigorous. He is, as has been so frequently stated, always in his seat; always watching the course of business, and always ready to shed light upon the question before the House. "The Hon. Mr. Morgan, whose seat is near to that of Mr. Adams, has obtained for me, with permission to publish in the Journal, a copy of the poem which I enclose. It was written in July, 1840, under these circumstances: — General Ogle informed Mr. Adams that several young ladies in his district had requested him to obtain Mr. A.'s autograph for them. In accordance with this request, Mr. Adams wrote the following poem upon The Wants of Man' each stanza upon a sheet of note paper. What American young lady would not set a precious value upon such an autograph from this illustrious statesman?" And silks for summer's fire, And Cashmere shawls, and Brussels lace, My bosom's front to deck, And diamond rings my hands to grace, And rubies for my neck. IV. And then I want a mansion fair, V. I want a garden, and a park, A thousand acres (bless the mark!) With walls encompass'd round, Where flocks may range and herds may low, And kids and lambkins play, And flowers and fruit commingl'd grow VI. I want, when summer's foliage falls, And autumn strips the trees, A house, within the city's walls, For comfort and for ease But here, as space is somewhat scant, And acres rather rare, My house in town, I only want, VII. I want a steward, butler, cooks, I want a library of well-bound books, VIII. Ay! and, to stamp my form and face I want, their lineaments to trace, And let the chisel's art sublime, XXI. I want the genius to conceive, The talents to unfold, Designs, the vicious to retrieve, The virtuous to uphold. Inventive power, combining skill; A persevering soul, Of human hearts to mold the will, And reach from pole to pole. XXII. I want the seals of power and place, The ensigns of command; Charged by the People's unbought grace, To rule my native land— Nor crown, nor scepter would I ask, But from my country's will, By day, by night, to ply the task, XXIII. I want the voice of honest praise, To follow me behind; And to be thought, in future days, In choral union, to the skies, XXIV. These are the wants of mortal man, I cannot want them long- My last great want, absorbing all, A sweeter, sadder thing, My life for having known you; Forever, with my sacred kin, My soul's soul, I must own you; Forever mine, my friend, From June till life's December; Not mine to have and hold, Mine to pray for, and remember. The way is short, my friend, That reaches out before us; God's tender heavens above us bend, His love is smiling o'er us. A little while is ours, For sorrow or for laughter; I'll lay the hand you love in yours, On the shore of the hereafter. THE EVENING BELLS. BY THOMAS MOORE. HOSE evening bells, those evening bells! Those pleasant hours have passed away, THE SCULPTOR BOY. HISEL in hand stood a sculptor boy, With his marble block before him: — And his face lit up with a smile of joy As an angel dream passed o'er him. He carved that dream on the yielding stone With many a sharp incision; In Heaven's own light the sculptor shone, He had caught that angel vision. Sculptors of life are we, as we stand, With our lives uncarved before us; Waiting the hour when, at God's command, Our life dream passes o'er us. Let us carve it then on the yielding stone, Its heavenly beauty shall be our own- THE CLOSING SCENE. BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ. ITHIN the sober realm of leafless trees, The russet year inhaled the dreamy air; All sights were mellowed and all sounds subdued, On sombre wings the vulture tried his flight; The village church vane seemed to pale and faint. The sentinel cock upon the hill-side crew Crew thrice - and all was stiller than before; Silent till some replying warden blew His alien horn, and then was heard no more. Where erst the jay, within the elm's tall crest, By every light wind, like a censer, swung. An early harvest and a plenteous year; Where every bird, that waked the vernal feast, To warn the reaper of the rosy east ; All now was sunless, empty, and forlorn. Amid all this, the center of the scene, The white-haired matron, with monotonous tread, Plied the swift wheel, and, with her joyless mien, Sate like a fate, and watched the flying thread. She had known sorrow. He had walked with her, Re-gave the sword but not the hand that drew, OH! WHY SHOULD THE SPIRIT OF MORTAL BE PROUD? [The following poem was a particular favorite with Mr. Lincoln, and which he was accustomed occasionally to repeat. Mr. F. B. Carpenter, the artist, writes that while engaged in painting his picture at the White House, he was alone one evening with the President in his room, when he said: "There is a poem which has been a great favorite with me for years, which was first shown to me when a young man by a friend, and which I afterwards saw and cut from a newspaper and learned by heart. I would," he continued, "give a great deal to know who wrote it, but have never been able to ascertain." He then repeated the poem, and on a subsequent occasion Mr. Carpenter wrote it down from Mr. Lincoln's own lips. The poem was published more than thirty years ago, was then stated to be of Jewish origin and composition, and we think was credited to "Songs of Israel."] BIRTH-SPOT MEMORIES. BY GEORGE D. PRENTICE. H, how the silent memories of years, A lone and joyless wanderer. I have roamed Were offering up their incense, and the stars to dream H, why should the spirit of mortal be proud? Like a swift-fleeting meteor, a fast-flying cloud, A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave, Man passes from life to his rest in the grave. The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade, And the young and the old, and the low and the high, The infant a mother attended and loved, The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose eye, The hand of the king that the sceptre hath borne ; The peasant, whose lot was to sow and to reap; The herdsman, who climbed with his goats up the steep; The saint who enjoyed the communion of heaven, So the multitude goes, like the flowers or the weed |